If I had told myself yesterday that today I would be writing an entry about a girl I see on the bus, I would have believed I was deceiving myself as I do regularly. But I must admit that I, a nearly 39-year-old middle-aged man, have a crush on a girl who shares my afternoon commute.

She must be in her early twenties at the most, and if any of you hapless people reading these words were to look at this human creature, you likely wouldn’t consider her a bombshell: she wears hoodies or similar attire; has glasses; her long, black hair in a half-up bun; very pale skin; and a lovely face. A tomboy of sorts. I’ve never heard her speak, so, to be honest, this person could be a beautiful dude that doesn’t grow facial hair. If that’s the case, I guess I’m bi. I’ve been into crazier shit.

Anyway, fantasizing about attractive girls (or I guess humans) lessens the horrible burdens that being alive imposes on me, but in the case of this bus person, for the entire ride, my attention was continually drawn to her. An antsy sixth sense suggested we were both thinking about each other, but neither would do shit about it because we aren’t crazy enough to approach a stranger for no good reason. I’m aware, however, that such an impression is likely testosterone talking; I grew up with little to no testosterone, and I never experienced such thoughts until they discovered my pituitary tumor and I started treatment. I will never get used to the notion that although I feel sure that something is going on, I may be imagining it because my hormones are deceiving me.

Last weekend, as I was walking by a park on my way home, I spotted her sitting on a bench. She looked at me, but my gaze didn’t linger. Today, as I was paying the bus fare, I got the feeling that someone was staring at me, and my gaze landed on her eyes. She reacted with a neck twitch and darting eyes, an universal sign of “Oh shit, I’ve been caught staring.” I walked by her and stood about a couple of meters behind her. When my stop was approaching, she moved to exit here, earlier than her usual stop. For about half a minute, she stood close enough that our arms almost touched, which I very much wanted to do. Then she exited, and we both went our separate ways.

Why am I even writing this? Because I never get interested in people. Of course, I notice attractive females and I fantasize sexually about them on a regular basis in order to feel better. But this bus person feels special: she’s someone I would like to know and not just imagine myself fucking. That’s a departure for me, because I can barely tolerate human beings.

She resembles Leire, the protagonist of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked, at least during the first half of that story. Is that why I care? Did my subconscious craft Leire’s image from some instinctual attraction? I don’t have the answers. All I know is that I look forward to seeing this human being again tomorrow at a quarter to two in the afternoon.

I’m not delusional enough to believe that anything will come out of my crush other than hyperactive daydreams. I will never be in another intimate relationship again: I’m middle-aged, in constant psychological and physical pain, my body is ruined in numerous ways, my Irritable Bowel Syndrome keeps me bloated and with my guts burning in relation to how anxious I am (and I’m always anxious, increasingly so, the moment I step out of a room where I’m alone), and I’m incapable of forming normal connections with people. Still, one can daydream. If we couldn’t even cling to delusional hopes, we would all have died out long, long ago.